I Was the Victim of a Violent Crime and Here is My Shame
It was my first night in Tulum, Mexico. The weather was hot and humid, but such a welcome reprieve from the rain and the cold of Vancouver. I had just grabbed food in Tulum town and since it was getting dark I started making my way back to the Airbnb. It was situated in a new complex that was being built in between the town and the beach resort strip. The town itself has been expanding the past few years, a lot of expats had begun moving in, and a lot of new houses were coming up. It wasn’t my first time there, so I was familiar with the feel of the city, but what I didn’t know was the local politics.
Mexicans are a very friendly and warm people, especially when their livelihood depends on tourism. You walk down any street and the locals greet you with waves and smiles, particularly the children, they run after you and want to play. With me, they always pointed at my colorful hair and told me how pretty it was. I suppose this lulled me into a false sense of security. I was so enamoured with Tulum, the culture of the locals mixed with the resort-chic yoga vibes, that I was considering moving there part-time.
The first two times during day when I walked from the town to the Airbnb I cut through the “shanty town” in order to avoid a long walk. The shanty town was a fenced in area with a handful of entrances. It was basically pieces of land where the construction workers and their families lived as the new complexes were coming up. There were huts and poorly put together dwellings that served as a temporary shelter from the elements. Since it was much darker out and I heard dogs barking, I decided to avoid the short-cut. It was not well lit and is generally it is a bit of a maze to wind through, so sometimes you aren’t even sure whether you’re cutting through someone’s backyard or not. Instead, I took the long route on a paved street.
The further into the street I got, the darker it became. There were no street lights. I looked up and I marvelled at how beautiful the sky was. It was expansive. I felt so at peace walking on this road. Eventually I turned into the cul-de-sac for the apartment complex, but the gate was locked. I saw someone walk behind me, and he called out to the car that was inside the gate. They told us to walk around. I took out the map since I was going to walk back, but the person behind me asked if I was trying to get into the cul-de-sac too, it turned out that it was a kid, he was slightly taller than me, kind of chubby, maybe 18 or so. He told me that he knew a short cut up ahead. We started walking together and talking. He was friendly, as all Mexicans I have ever met have been.
His English wasn’t that great, but he kept on asking me why I wasn’t taking a cab. Incidentally when I arrived into Puerto Vallarta that day and I didn’t even have cash to take the bus, none of my cards worked. I had to reach out to a photographer I had met in Mexico City a previous trip and ask him to buy a bus ticket for me online since they only took Mexican credit cards. I told the boy that I didn’t have any money, I guess he didn’t believe me. We walked for about 10 minutes, and I didn’t see any streets ahead, so I told him that I was just going to turn around and walk the way I knew. I didn’t even question why he decided to turn around with me, I suppose I was used to males trying to get my attention and walk me home. A car passed us, and he suggested I walk in front of him. I didn’t want to so I refused. I found it weird that he was insistent.
Suddenly he turned around and wrapped his arm around my neck and dragged me into the forest. The first thought I had was, “Fuck, of course this would happen to me in Mexico.” I was trying to struggle against him, but he had the upper hand in terms of size, strength and surprise. I found myself on the ground staring up at him as my lungs were gasping for air and I wondered if this was going to turn into a rape. He then grabbed a rock and started to bludgeon me over the head with a rock. My mind was starting to go into panic mode at that point and I had struggled enough to get my footing but he still had me in his grip and the rock in hand. I had my phone in mine and I was trying to dial, he kept on hitting me over the head, repeatedly. Eventually I fell onto my knees. I think I was crying at that point and kept on asking why and telling him to “ just take my bag”. He didn’t stop.
The events of those few minutes are still a blur for me. It was so fast and slow at the same time. I remember being both on the ground and standing up looking at the trees around me at the same time. My body was flooding with good feelings even though I knew I was bleeding profusely. It felt like I was falling into universal consciousness and that everything was going to be alright; that it didn’t matter whether I had a physical body or not. At that moment, I also knew that if he continued hitting me over the head I would die. He was trying to kill me. It wasn’t what I had that he wanted, it was what I stood for that he hated. Maybe at that point my body had stopped struggling. I was still on the ground but he was gone. I felt like the time I woke up at the bottom of a mountain with a concussion. My ears were ringing. My hands were covered with blood. I wanted to find my phone at least I could call for help. I thought maybe it was still on the ground. I tried, but I couldn’t really see, so I stood back up.
I knew it was about a 10–15 walk into the main street. I reasoned that I probably had enough adrenaline in me to make it there. Even if I made it close enough to the street and passed out, someone would find me. I stumbled and I walked. The next thing I knew there was light shining in my face and the sound of a woman. I asked for help. I explained that I was attacked. They asked me where I was from, and I answered some questions. I told them my sister’s number and then asked if I could use Instagram to message someone.
Later I was told that it was a wife and husband who found me. The husband was local and the wife was American. They thought it was a scam since they couldn’t believe someone could have that much blood on them and still be walking. It was a good thing that I could speak English and communicate with them before I passed out. They took me to two different hospitals before the third accepted me. I didn’t have any identification on me so the hospitals were worried about payment. Thankfully the people who found me assured them that I was Canadian and my family would be coming to pay the bills.
I don’t remember a lot of that night except that I was in an ambulance and I kept on being told not to fall asleep. I remember a lot of pain and just wishing it would stop. I remember needing to pee but being offered a catheter instead. I remember people asking so many questions. I remember asking a woman if I could hold her hand. I wanted touch and I wanted comfort. I remember putting my hands on my stomach and telling myself that it was going to be okay.
I ended up with 37 stitches on my head, my hair chopped off, and the largest hospital bill I had ever seen. I had a contusion, subdural hematoma and a traumatic brain injury (TBI). My face was swollen and bruised. I had to stay in Mexico under nurse care for a month because I was at risk for seizures and I couldn’t take a flight because the pressure would have been too much for my head.
It’s been a year since my attack and my body has fully recovered, even though my hair hasn’t (I used to have almost waist length hair). I still have many people tell me they liked my long hair better not realizing the memories that brings up. Last night I went over the memories and I realized I have all these feelings of shame associated with the event. I’m ashamed that I didn’t recognize danger. I’m ashamed that I spent time talking to this Mexican boy thinking he wanted my friendship. I’m ashamed that I still feel unsafe at night on my own.
But mainly, I’m ashamed that I was not able to tell the details of this story when I was first hospitalized.
I was a victim and I blamed myself.
I thought if I told other people the full story they would come up with all the ways it could have been avoided.
I was perpetuating victim blaming.
That first day after the attack my sister remarked to my ex (who had flown in to take care of me) that she was worried I was suffering from brain damage since I was too calm. I hadn’t felt anger about the attack. I knew I had forgiven my assailant the moment I accepted the reality of my death. I created this story for myself that it was better me than someone else. That I could handle the violence and his anger. That the universe put me there to take a bit of Mexico’s pain. (At that time the amount of seaweed that piled up on the beaches were incredible. It was as if the ocean was bleeding.)
In my mind I needed to be strong and to do so I had to dissociate myself from all of the feelings. I would not be a victim to trauma. I gave myself the time and the space to recover physically all the while mentally focusing on the things I wanted to do in life. The incident became a blip in my memory. Sometimes it was a story I glossed over if it came up, mainly focusing on the feeling of DMT being released in my brain and the after effects of my TBI. I didn’t want the incident to affect how I wanted to live. I started to refer to it as an accident rather than an attack. I pushed myself to continue traveling and to let go of my fears. I continued to explore.
The past 6 weeks I’ve stopped travelling and have settled down in Brussels. I’ve started reading more memoirs and I’ve started writing more. Last night I lay in bed thinking about the stories I wanted to share. This one came up. I thought about what I wanted to say. I thought about what I would include. And I thought about how I would recount it. That led me to really examine the events and I started to notice a discomfort in my gut. My mind wouldn’t stop, it started to replay the events and go over the minutiae. It started to nudge and point. It started to blame. It screamed to be looked at, but I couldn’t in the absence of light. It was scary and I was still avoiding the feelings. I gave myself permission to sleep.
In the morning those feelings were nowhere to be found. So I went about my day. I was reading when my hand reached to push my hair behind ear and I felt a bump, so my finger went back to run over it. I then put my other finger behind my other ear and pushed against a mass of deformed skin. There was pain. It’s likely an exposed nerve. It’s always an interesting sensory perception for my fingers. Each time I encounter the deformation behind my ears, my fingers are surprised.
The same can be said for my feelings. Sometimes I’ll be watching a tv show and it gets really violent. I watch someone’s head get bashed in and I watch the blood pool on the ground. Something inside of me cringes. I tell myself it’s okay. A few days ago I was watching Suits, the episode where we see Samantha get mugged and she ends up in the hospital. I started to wonder why I didn’t have the same reaction as her, or the same as Luis. What I didn’t realize is that I’ve had the exact same feelings, but I just chose to ignore them.
I texted my sister today and asked her to send me the newspaper article that was written about my attack. When I saw she had replied, I felt my hesitation about opening the messages. I left it for a few hours but eventually went to look. When I opened it I was shocked to see a picture of myself. I closed it immediately. I decided that I couldn’t stomach reading the clipping or posting the picture here. Although I did share it with my boyfriend when he got home today, he was shocked to see the picture too. Later on I told him that I remembered what top I was wearing but not the pants. He then asked me what colour shirt. I told him it was white. His face told me that he was going to be sick. He told it me it wasn’t white anymore, my shirt was covered with blood in the picture.
It took me a year to look at the details of this story and come to terms with the involvement of my shame. While there are still unturned stones and feelings that I have yet to come to terms with, I am proud of myself for peering into the tough moments.
